Lead Me Not Into Temptation
by amor-remanet
Summary: A student's personal struggles with his identity makes Albus Dumbledore reflect on his own loves. Angst, SLASH, Albus x Gellert. Oneshot.


"Everyone knows that stories are imaginary," Albus, Terry, Albus/Gellert

Fourteen-year-old boys have an amazing potential for unconscionable obstinacy. Albus has neither hidden from nor denied this fact since Aberforth turned fourteen and struck his older brother dumb with just how insistent he was on pursuing and/or cleaving to things that were, simply put, not worth his time.

Terry Boot, as it turns out, is no exception to this rule. It's somewhat surprising, Albus must admit, given that all he's heard about the boy from Filius, Minerva, and, last year, from Remus has been unfailingly filled with praise. "Very bright, quite respectful, and so easily absorbed in classroom activity or discussion." "Comes up with proper rebuttals almost instantly, even if he takes his time explaining them." "Perhaps not _gifted_, as such, but undeniably intelligent and capable. He has it in him to do great things, but there's always _something_ holding him back."

Within half a minute of Terry's entering his office, Albus knows in his heart the identity of that something that all three of his colleagues mentioned. For being only a boy of fourteen, Terry looks as though he has an impenetrable world of thought behind his sleepless eyes. Then again, he is one of Filius's. Not all Ravenclaws are particularly deep, of course, but it rather befits the boy's descriptions ("quiet, but only for thinking too much") that he looks the part. More than pensive, and more than exhausted, though he surely must be, the young Boot looks utterly terrified, even moreso than on his second day at Hogwarts. _That_ had been an incident and a half. First, his brother, Jacob, had dragged the poor boy to Severus, demanding that he be re-Sorted, from Ravenclaw to Slytherin. Then they'd repeated the process with Filius. Finally, Filius brought the brothers up to Albus's office for a lesson in how the Sorting Hat worked.

Now, though, he looks as though he'll faint from fear while still in the doorway. Albus smiles. Perhaps that might put the boy at ease.

No such luck. "Y-y – Professor Flitwick sent me to s-see y-y-you, s-sir," he stammers.

"Yes, Terry," Albus says softly. "Come in, sit down."

Terry nods and does as he's told.

"Would you care for a sherbet lemon?"

"A… a what, sir?"

"They're a Muggle sweet that I'm rather fond of."

"Oh. I… I don't think my-my p-parents would-"

"Not a problem," Albus says, still smiling. Of course. How could he forget the twin temperaments and beliefs of Mary and Valerian Boot? "A Fizzing Whizbee, perhaps?"

"No, th-thank you, sir."

"Are you perfectly alright, Terry?"

"I… I have been better, sir."

"Is there any reason for that, perhaps?"

Terry nods again, perhaps blissfully unaware that the nature his problems isn't so hard to discern. Although reading students is particularly easy, and has only gotten easier over the years, knowing what troubles Terry is less an experiment in reading people than it is an intuitive sense. How could Albus fail to see it? He had problems of a similar nature at Terry's age. The biggest difference, though, comes down to people, or perhaps temperament. While Albus knew that Kendra Dumbledore could never hear about her eldest son's so-called predilections, he'd had friends who could, and he'd had Elphias, who'd helped more than anyone else had known. And, of course, he'd been quite insistent on getting something for himself.

From what he can tell, Terry has more than enough friends who would help him, if he were to be open with them. Anthony Goldstein, Sally-Anne Perks, and Michael Corner – you couldn't ask for a better group of four. The glue between those three and Terry is only rivaled, in Albus's estimation, by the glue that had existed between Sirius, James, Remus, and Peter before everything had happened and all their number, plus Lily, found themselves betrayed. More important, though, is that Terry's parents and one of his brothers are so particularly insistent on their beliefs, both those on blood purity and those of their faith.

Finally, Terry replies, meekly, looking intently at his hands, tense and pale in his lap: "I-I'd r-r-really ra-rather not d-d-discuss it, sir. S-s-suffice to s-say, though, I… well. I th-think that there might b-b-be good reason to f-fear for m-m-my… my immortal soul."

"Why would you think that?" Albus inquires gently, though he can see the answer coming.

"I-I-I-I – well, it's a d-d-delicate situation, really – I-I'm t-t-_trying_ to f-f-fix it-"

"Fix what, Terry?"

"…I… I-I-I-I… I mean, this is – in a manner of sp-speaking – it-it-it's just that…" He looks around the office, likely making sure that absolutely no one else – from Fawkes to Phineas Nigellus and including everyone else – is listening to this conversation. Once he's sure that they're quite alone, his lips still tremble, and, when he speaks, he lowers his voice. "I… I m-m-_might_ b-be a… that is, I th-th-_think _there's a p-p-possibility that… a-a-a… a h-h-_homosexual_…"

Albus has to keep himself from sighing at this. He's known that this would be Terry's problem, but being faced with it is still so exhausting, as it would be from anyone. Honestly, it is less the problem and more the boy's unfortunate attitude about it. While Albus is certainly not one to discourage faith, especially in the young people, since they're normally so cynical, this instance is very much scratching on his patience like a dog who wants to come inside. Catholicism, while far from being inherently wrong, is so apparently contradictory to everything within the Wizarding world, and when it convinces young boys, who are, for all accounts, nice and well behaved, that they have inherent problems for things they can't control – it's all so _nauseating_. And parents would unwittingly do that to their own son.

Of course, parents aren't perfect, which Albus knows quite well, but the look on Terry's face is heartbreaking. Even after everything that's ever happened, everything that Albus has had to see, everything he's had to look at, oversee, and keep a stiff upper lip through – even with everything in the past, it's almost too much to watch this boy believe his parents so fully. Having been in similar, if not the same, places, Albus sympathizes, and he wants to blindly put his faith in the notion that Terry will get out of this, same as he himself did. This may or may not be a questionable notion to hope for, but Albus has hoped for less ostensibly worthwhile causes before.

"Why on Earth would that be a problem, Terry?" he asks softly.

Terry looks somewhat horrified, but mostly shocked. "D-d-don't you know what _happens_ to b-boys like th-th-_that_ when they… sh-shuffle off th-the mortal coil?"

"No, I do not, but, then, no one can say for sure-"

"They go to _Hell_," the boy interjects with pressing urgency, his eyes desperate and his voice barely above a whisper. "Seventh level, third circle. The blasphemers lie in burning sand and are rained upon by hellfire. The usurers sit in fetal positions, pelted by the same hellfire, with no visible identities, save bags around their necks bearing their family crests. And the sodomites are put in groups and meant to race around, dodging the hellfire for _all eternity_. If they stop running, or slow down, they have to spend _one hundred_ _years_ on their backs, like the blasphemers. After the Second Coming, they'll be meant to do the same, but they'll have their bodies back, and so the pain will be magnified significantly. And Brunetto Latini doesn't seem to mind that much, but I-"

"_Terry_," Albus sighs; he maintains the patience in his voice, but he himself is not sure how. He never did have much patience for eschatology. "Dear boy, those are just the imaginings of Dante Alighieri, who, while an accomplished poet, had no more knowledge of the afterlife than you or I."

"Well, of course he didn't _really_ go to Hell with Virgil; believing in that would be ridiculous. But he could have easily had a vision from the Almighty-"

"Terry, _The Divine Comedy_ is hardly a guide to whatever comes after death. It is an epic poem, written by a Florentine in exile from his native city-"

"But it could have come to him in a vision-"

"It is a story, Terry. Only that."

"It's a-"

"_Story_. A simple narrative on the surface, with several debatable interpretations and an underlying allegory that is, at times, both obvious and subtle. But, beyond that, it is just a story, and, as everyone knows, stories aren't real."

"This one _is_-"

"Everyone knows that stories are imaginary, Terry. And this one is no exception."

That part of this explication tastes a lie in Albus's mouth. While Dante's story is most assuredly fictional, not all stories are, as Albus knows quite well. Of course, it's, for the better part, impertinent; his and Gellert's relationship, and all the talks therein about "the greater good" and the Deathly Hallows, doesn't have enough of a bearing on this instance to mention.

Rather, Albus wishes that it didn't. He knows better than to wish such things when doing so accomplishes nothing. The facts are such that, in all honesty, his relationship with Gellert is relevant here.

It had been ten days since Gellert came to Godric's Hollow, and Albus hadn't gotten his new companion out of his head in all of them, not even while he slept. The younger boy with blonde hair and sparkling eyes; he was so graceful and effortlessly charismatic. He'd lured Albus in at their brief first meeting; he'd captured the bespectacled redhead at their second – and, with Elphias out of the country, flirting with possibility wasn't criminal. Of course, Albus cared for Elphias, and he knew in his heart that he always would, but he'd suspected for months by now that Elphias had more invested in _them_ than he did. Gellert's entrance proved that.

He practically swaggered into things, Gellert Grindelwald – and, in so doing, he demanded attention without being nearly that forward. It was all quite unlike Albus's relationship with Elphias, which had developed slowly, over their shared seven years at Hogwarts. They'd both been Gryffindors, they'd been best friends and roommates; when Albus got Prefect in their fifth year, Elphias didn't argue, even though Albus made constant mention of how he hardly deserved the honor; all their messy preludes were tender, gentle, even sweet, once they'd gotten past the reservations they'd both had. Elphias was perfect, in his own imperfections. He was intelligent; he was sensitive to all of Albus's needs, and moods, and the fluctuations thereof; he deeply cared for Albus and his work; he could serve as both an aid in debating ideas and a reminder that personal maintenance…

There'd been one night, during NEWTs (had it not been for Divination, Albus would have had his full twelve, and it nearly drove him mad), when Albus had fallen into a nigh impenetrable sleep at one of the Common Room tables. Not only had Elphias seen to it to charm him into bed, but he'd also made sure in the morning that Albus didn't miss breakfast, let alone his History of Magic, Arithmancy, and Transfiguration NEWTs. For the entire day, his eyes had been so _desperately_ invested in Albus's wellbeing; he'd come close on several occasions to insisting that Albus make a trip to the Hospital Wing, and he'd mentioned it as a possibility several times. The love that had taken over his entirety had been evident on every detail of his face, from the big, bright eyes to the small, barely visible peach fuzz he'd grown in neglecting himself during their exams. It had been moreso at Mother's funeral, and even more of it had come out in his embrace and in the slight mists about his eyes before he'd left on his adventure.

And Gellert made it all disappear, evanescent like morning mist.

Even just discussing someone's ideas had undercurrents, for Albus, of the tension in his heart. It hardly mattered, by his reckoning, what he wanted to do with Gellert, nor did it matter how much he wanted to do it all. The want overpowered the love of Elphias, but there was still loyalty to consider, and the fact that, no doubt, Gellert would hardly have agreed to it. In the tree behind Ms. Bagshot's house, tilting his head to the sun, with his beautiful blonde curls splaying on his shoulders and the shadows of leaves and branches playing on his face, he was beautiful. Desire caused Albus's stomach to flutter and heart to spasm every time Gellert laughed, or grinned in his perfectly cheeky manner. Even though he knew the story of the Deathly Hallows, he was held rapt through Gellert's retelling of it.

"So, what I have come up with, based on this story," he explained, his voice proud and haughty, "is a plan."

"Gellert," Albus laughed. He loved saying that name. Just two syllables, two lovely and magical syllables – and he loved them. "How could you possibly craft a plan based on the story? What would you do? Find the river the brothers crossed, wait until it grew turbulent enough, attempt to cross it, and then hope you have two friends foolhardy enough for that adventure, so you can all get your own Hallow from Death?"

"Hardly!" He almost sounded offended, but his smile mitigated that. "Think on it, Albus. Put that brain of yours to good use – or better use than _Transfiguration Today_, or whatever you happen to be writing for today-"

"It was _Transfiguration Today_, actually, but first Ariana needed attending, and then you called-"

"Impertinent! What I propose is to find the Hallows-"

"Find the Hallows? Gellert, you have gone mad-"

"I have not gone mad! Think on it: they must be out there somewhere, and, if someone – or if, say, if two people were to find them… think of what it would _mean_, Albus."

"It would mean that the person, or two people, would have in their possession incredibly dangerous magical items. Or, more likely, they would have in their possession a normal wand, a random stone, and an Invisibility Cloak that, in all likelihood, would wear out its charms in fifteen years. I say that this is more likely owing to the fact that they would not find the Deathly Hallows, owing to the fact that the Deathly Hallows do not exist."

"What makes you so sure of that? You question everything else."

"It's a story, Gellert," Albus said, with a flippant laugh. "A _children's _story, moreover. Everyone knows that stories are imaginary."

"This one is not imaginary, Albus! It's real. The Hallows are real, and whosoever should find himself with all three will truly be the Master of Death. There are enough stories about undefeatable wands to make at least the Elder Wand feasible, so why would the others not follow suit?"

"Because, as I already said, it is a _story_. Not even Ariana would believe in the Deathly Hallows, were you to tell her the story."

"Well, then, you can't say that entertaining the notion of their existence isn't a tempting prospect."

Albus was quite prepared to respond, but gasped instead, feeling Gellert's bare foot run up his shin; despite his best efforts otherwise, his face flushed bright pink. Eyes glinting, Gellert leaned toward him, across the space between the opposing nooks they'd settled into. When he spoke again, he lowered his voice to a whisper.

"Think on it, Albus. The Master of Death. Think on what could be achieved by someone – or two someones – who achieved that title, that _power_…"

It _was_ tempting, but hardly, Albus thought, more tempting than Gellert's lips right then.

"The power to _control_ death…"

It should not have been so tempting, what Gellert was proposing. Controlling death should not have seemed to Albus, in all his good sensibilities and all his better senses, to be such a desirable aspiration. But the way that Gellert phrased it, and something about his voice, and his glinting eyes, and his collarbone, so exposed by the undone buttons on his shirt – something about the whole of his being made it seem so much less disturbing.

"They could – this is assuming that there were two, of course – but they _could_ use this control to help Wizardkind. To help advance _our kind_. For the _greater good_."

No more words were exchanged in that jaunt up Ms. Bagshot's tree. Albus kissed Gellert on the lips, and Gellert kissed back in a similar manner, and then, all together ruining a perfect moment, Ms. Bagshot had called her nephew in for supper. As much as Albus wanted to take the widow's invitation to stay, that she had supper ready most surely meant that he needed to be at home, making supper for Aberforth and Ariana. If he were late enough in getting home, Aberforth would make it on his own, and spend at least two days instilling guilt in his older brother.

As it happened, Aberforth hadn't started making supper when Albus arrived at home, though he waited for his brother in the doorway to their home, scowling and crossing his arms on his chest. They didn't speak as Albus made his way into the kitchen and set his bag on the table. They didn't speak as he got the food out and began the pre-preparation. They didn't speak as Albus charmed the table set. It wasn't until things were nearly completed that Aberforth decided to begin his interrogation.

"She's been asking for you," he huffed, leaning in the kitchen threshold. "_Again_. Won't tell me anything, but she's waiting to pour out her entire soul to _you_."

"She can do so after supper," Albus replied coolly, not looking up from his work, "should she still feel so inclined."

"What am I supposed to tell her, though? What have I _been_ supposed to tell her? She comes to me, going, 'Where's Albus, where's Albus,' and how on _Earth_ – how in the _ever expansive mind of MERLIN_, am I meant to tell her that you'd rather run 'round with Bagshot's nephew than care for your own flesh and blood, who happens to _need you_, now-"

"Your attempts to guilt me will not work, you realize."

"They should! Ariana _needs you_ – she needs to be taken care of, we're the only ones here, and since she won't let me come near her most times, she _needs you_ – and where are _you_? Off gallivanting with Gellert Grindelwald! And, if Mother hadn't died, you'd be off in _Greece_, having 'a private trip' with Elphias Doge!"

"I do not criticize your friends, Aberforth. I should appreciate the same courtesy from you."

"_My_ friends aren't utterly _mad_!"

"You only call Gellert and Elphias mad because the former was expelled from Durmstrang, because the latter has a sense of adventure, and because both of them happen to be friends with myself."

"Perhaps I do," Aberforth huffed. "But whatever you're playing at with them… your sister should be more important."

"I am not 'playing at' anything-"

"Do not even _try_ to say that, Albus! So maybe I am not _you_, but that does not mean that I'm lacking in any brainpower. I know that you, and Doge, and Bagshot's nephew are more than friends – call it whatever you want to call it, but I'll settle for that. And maybe I don't know quite how you lot are more than friends, but I know that you are. And I know that Ariana's more important than whatever they have to give you."

Albus was silent. There was nothing he could say to you. Finally, Aberforth sighed heatedly.

"Least it all explains," he huffed, turning on the kitchen to go fetch Ariana, "how in the Hell you got through school without once entertaining one of the girls who fancied you."

That particular memory would come up now, even though there are more pertinent ones to the situation that lies outside this office. Once Terry Boot has been handled, there are more pressing matters – perhaps, no, certainly less personal matters, but there is still the Triwizard Tournament, and Dark powers still loom as potent threats. Severus's Mark has been growing darker of late, as has Igor's, from Severus's report, and that hardly bodes well for anyone. Albus knows full well that he should have seen this murkiness and the Dark's ascension coming from when Bertha Jorkins disappeared, and not just from when he read of the death of a Muggle man in Little Hangleton. But he's a busy man. He has a school to run, and places to be, and Cornelius's problems to solve, as well as his own.

And, right now, he most likely will not succeed in convincing this boy that who he is will not damn him to Hell. The fear in him is still too strong a presence. Albus knows the same fear well, the fear that accepting oneself will be disastrous – but he also knows that he has been so long divorced from said fear that his understanding of it is quite diminished.

"Well… regardless of it being a story, sir," Terry sighs, "there are… _other_ forces at p-p-play, and, either way, really, I just… I _can't_ be a… _homosexual_. This – this – this is just a t-t-temptation – how I f-_feel_ is a _test_, a test of my f-f-faith, one I _know_ that I'm meant to p-p-pass–"

"How would you call it a test, Terry?"

"Oh! That's rather simple, really. It's just… it's just, God created man and woman to fit each other and to replenish the species, so heterosexual sexual intercourse and desires for it are normal. Perhaps lustful, in some cases, and easily taken to extremes, but… but they're _natural_. By, by, by tempting someone with _unnatural_ desires, such as a man's desire to do… _things _with another man, He tests our devotion to Him. It's a t-test, and I'm supposed to pass it, and _to_ pass it, I just… I need to change. I've been _trying_ to ch-change-"

"How would you propose to change?"

The look on his face is a typical adolescent expression, which Albus has not seen enough of in the boy. It says, unequivocally, "What are you? An idiot?"

"By resisting and reversing the temptation, sir!" he explains, oddly energetic. "By making it so that I love _women_, instead of men."

It is painful, Albus must admit, to hear that explanation. First, the boy is clearly maligning the name of love in thinking to change where his desires lay. But, more importantly, this notion of change is so utterly _revolting_ – and Albus knows that Terry couldn't have come up with it on his own, at least not entirely. Perhaps Mary and Valerian Boot hadn't meant to torture their son so, but they clearly had a hand in making him think that something so basic about a person can be changed. That people still consider this a valid line of thinking is not entirely surprising, but how it affects its young victims is enough to make Albus feel physically ill.

"And… my attempts to change this have kept me up at night, which is why I… had that mishap in Professor Flitwick's class. I'm sorry, sir, and I… I'll keep it from happening again, I promise."

"How much do your friends know, Terry? Mister Corner, Mister Goldstein, and Miss Perks? Or, they are the names that Professor Flitwick mentioned."

For being a student, the boy has actually been good at maintaining eye contact; here, though, he looks at his shoes. "They… they know that I've been struggling," he says softly. "I, I… I actually… I took Sal to the Yule Ball, and tried to… _kiss her_, and that was how she… _found out_. Michael and Anthony have known since second year. …They think it's ridiculous. That I should just… _accept_ it-"

"I doubt that telling you how correct they are would have much affect?"

The boy looks up again, shaking his head slowly. Though he isn't the first student to start crying in this office, his tears are, somehow, more personally affecting for Albus. "I just… I _can't_ accept it, sir. I, I… my parents have expectations, _God_ has expectations-"

"Your needs, Terry, and your desires are infinitely more important." It's true. Albus just hopes Terry will realize this fact, sooner rather than later. "No one can determine how your afterlife will be spent, and no one can overrule what you need to be happy. They will try, of course, which you know well, but you can defeat them. All you need to do is accept that you are not a horrible person because of whom you love. It isn't something that you can simply 'fix,' and attempting to do so will only make you miserable. Who you are is not constrained to or defined by whom you love." Without even needing to think it through, he adds: "Trust me."

Terry pauses, and the gears turning in his head are evident. His only response, though, is, "…Please, just… don't owl my parents. They don't need this, not with the twins and Mum all being ill, not now."

Albus nods solemnly. "They will not hear a word from me. They will not even know that you were here."

Terry nods slowly and leaves the office without another word. Although Albus would prefer to know that his message got through to the boy, this ending is the only one he sees that works. Sometime in the future, perhaps he'll get his wish, but, for now, he only has his hopes.


End file.
